I wanted to drive from age 2. They wouldn’t let me. Bastards. I had to wait til I was 14. Because my brother’s mate, also-Richard, was given a van for work when he was 17 and he took me to a little airdrome in Romford which had been converted into a faux road system for driving ‘practice’. It was private and you didn’t need a license. And I drove. It was the best thing ever. That same year, along with 2 friends, and not telling our parents until afterwards, we bought a motor scooter. A Vespa. Which again we couldn’t use on the roads. Firstly because we were too young and secondly because it was a fucking death trap we bought from Harvey the Nutter, who liked death traps. We paid £4.50 for it. We massacred garden lawns with it. Which gave the already disapproving parents much more to disapprove.

Then, as 17 approached, I bought my first Mini. Red one. NKN 802F. Because it was a couple of months til my birthday, I couldn’t drive it. Only wash it, stroke it, hug it and love it.

And that feeling, of owning a car, the sheer wonder of it, has never left me. Even after all the cars, all the driving, I get in MY car, I feel empowered. Liberated. It represents total freedom. Other than the speed cameras, pot-holes, traffic lights, congestion charge, speed bumps and traffic jams. Freedom can’t get more total than that. So I still clean our cars. I don’t go the local Albanian car-wash and money-laundering syndicate, I don’t get the guys with hose-pipes in their vans to come round. I do it myself. Because I enjoy it. It’s more satisfying than watching the bottom of the league team beat Spurs. I wash Mel’s car too. Though you have to be careful with all that water around an electric car. It’s like putting an electric fire in the bath. I wear rubber soled boots.

And of all the cars I’ve had, this one is my favourite. What Joey calls ‘the racing car’. I will drive this car, if not ‘forever’ then at least until I can no longer get in it without help.

Happy Sunday, drive carefully,

A xxxx